Tag: patriarchy

Young patriarch tells it like it is: Woman indeed is the weaker vessel; Sodomites hate God, and infiltrate churches to spit in God’s face … Am I controlling for keeping my woman away from these evil men? Then so be it.

February 5, 2012

(Trigger warning: patronizing, misogyny, homophobia...)

Last night, a patriarch-in-training named “Matt” spent a lot of time reading and commenting on the NLQ FAQ: What Is Quiverfull?

It’s possible that Matt is a troll and his comments should be ignored or deleted – but his arguments are not at all unlike the “biblical” beliefs which I heard taught/preached regularly during my Quiverfull days. I am assuming Matt is a young man based on his immaturity and know-it-all attitude – of course, given that patriarchs rarely grow up, it’s possible that he is an old man – maybe he’s the pastor of an IFB church.

So, without further ado – here’s Matt:

I take it from your post that you are dead set on fornicating, although the Bible tells you not to do that.

“Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the saviour of the body.”

“Therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in every thing. Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church, and gave himself for it; That he might sanctify and cleanse it with the washing of water by the word, That he might present it to himself a glorious church, not having spot, or wrinkle, or any such thing; but that it should be holy and without blemish. So ought men to love their wives as their own bodies. He that loveth his wife loveth himself.”

“This is a great mystery: but I speak concerning Christ and the church. Nevertheless let every one of you in particular so love his wife even as himself; and the wife see that she reverence her husband.”

You are mistaking voluntary submission with involuntary servitude. As a Christian lady you are commanded to be subject to your husband, it is asked of you to submit. It doesn’t say “men, oppress your woman to all costs!”. As a Christian woman who claims to believe in the Word of God, which is inspired/breathed by God, your Creator, is it alright for you to dismiss what that Word says?

A woman surrenders to a man so easily when he takes charge. That is the danger of having a matriarch with a man in subjection. The woman indeed is the weaker vessel, tossed to and fro, giving in to whims, and judges things according to her motherly instinct. For instance, she would say sodomite couplings are lovely, because love is blind. A man who is not of God would say “I don’t care, to each their own”, but not mention love in the equation. A man of God would not even let a sodomite in under his roof or in the vincinity of his children!! Let me tell you something, love is not blind! Even infatuation is not blind. But infatuation and love are two different things. Love is a choice. Hate is a choice. I will hate the wicked and their deeds. Yes, hate. Furthermore, sodomites hate God, and infiltrate churches to spit in God’s face. You might say, “sodomites love each other, so what’s wrong with that”? I love my siblings, does that mean I have sexual relations with them?! I love men, as brothers. I love women, as sisters. But by God, there is only one person I take sexual pleasure in! Love is not sex. Learn it, woman.

So, if you’re a Christian woman, your God that you supposedly love, tells you to submit and be in subject to your husband in every thing. Am I a jealous man? Every man of God should be jealous! Just as God is jealous, and wants us only to worship him.

And why am I jealous? Because the woman is the weaker vessel, and evil men who have acknowledged this takes advantage, to defile you.

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Snipped! – Part 2: My Little Years

January 26, 2012

by Incongruous Circumspection

I was born in Minneapolis as a boy.  Mama took one look at me and exclaimed, “I thought he was going to be Rebecca!”  Needless to say, I was scarred for life.  In those days, getting an ultrasound to determine the sex of a baby wasn’t a bygone decision and people essentially relied on the doctors and midwives to make educated guesses based on measurements, heart rates, and old wives tales.

Yes, I was born in a hospital.  My mother birthed all seven of us children before she entered the world of Bill Gothard (Billy Boy G.), i.e. no home births.   Thus, there were no complications when she had to have an emergency C-section with my younger sister (though she constantly attributed that sister’s rebellion to not being squeezed through the birth canal).

I was the middle child of seven.  I had an older sister, two older twin brothers, two younger sisters, and my baby bro.  We were all within 7.5 years in age, allowing us to be very close as we tried to navigate the hell that was to be our childhood and young adult years.

My father tells the story that he knew something was wrong with Mama when my older sister (I’ll call her Marie) was beaten at the ripe old age of six months – for crying.  This practice helped Mama fit in to her new-found faith once she found Billy Boy G in 1987, 10 years later.  Marie was beaten until she escaped at 25 years old, a fact you might remember from my previous installments.

The only memory I have of being beaten during my “little years” was when we were being babysat by an aunt.  The aunt was a good woman and allowed kids to be kids.  I climbed up on the dresser in the boys’ bedroom and knocked a bunch of clothes off of it.  As a young whippersnapper, I never cleaned up my messes – unless I was beaten.  Children tend to learn things like that quickly.  Mama came home and found the mess and lit into me.  I have no recollection of the beating –just the narrative.  And she never let me forget. Years later, she still used that incident as proof that I was a disobedient, evil, louse.

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The Destiny of a Virtuous Daughter ~ Part 5: Not My Will

January 24, 2012

by Starfury

Anthony and I maintained a long-distance courtship until shortly before I turned 18, whereupon he moved to where I was safely ensconced at a conservative Catholic university. Our arguments grew in number when we spent more time together, but I pretended nothing was wrong. After all, I should feel guilty. He was trying to encourage me to grow spiritually when I wasn’t willing to take chances and trust in God. Still, I loved him, and even though I hated how he told me what to do at times, I knew it was in my best interest.

That spring, he drove me home from school, where my parents were waiting. Unexpectedly, they called us in to discuss the state of our relationship. Having only received encouragement from them throughout the year, we were a little startled at this, but went willingly. They confronted us with concerns brought to them by a family we attended church with; we were not emotionally or spiritually mature enough, and our relationship was moving too quickly, especially physically.

My first reaction was anger and hurt that they would suggest I had broken my vows of purity (which I had not). The next concern was what was meant by too fast? We were courting, and as far as I was led to understand, that meant we were involved in a serious relationship with marriage as the goal. I was certain I wanted to marry him. Physically, we kissed on the cheek and hugged and held hands. Spiritually, I pointed out to my parents that he was challenging and encouraging me in my walk.

Undaunted by our arguments and defenses, my parents decreed that they did not feel we were ready for this relationship. To illustrate this point, and help us grow as respective individuals, they were instituting a one year moratorium on our relationship. We were not breaking up, but merely putting a pause on the way things were. During this time, we were to have absolutely no contact with each other, whatsoever. Flabbergasted, we had no choice but to accept.

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Bring Me The Flaming Head Of Barbie! – Adventures In Recovery

January 8, 2012

by Calulu

A few weeks ago I was witnessing internet wide that one thing is certain. Just about everyone has a strong reaction to the news that Michelle Duggar is enceinte again. Of course I snicked like the sarcastic wise-cracking gal I am and some of us tossed around those hoary old chestnuts we always say when discussing Duggar child bearing. “It’s a vagina not a clown car” and “Looks like Jim Bob tossed the hotdog down the well again”

In most of the online discussion of how dangerous her playing maternal Russian roulette actually is no one seemed to hit upon my first thought, how quickly would Jim Bob replace her with a newer, younger, prettier model.

I mean, really, it’s like shooting dice, eventually snake eyes is going to come up. Bad things happen if you keep repeating the same risky behavior. Look at the last of her pregnancies. Something did go wrong. It’s just simple statistics that sometimes things go haywire and we can’t do much about them. But why put yourself in those types of risky situations in the first place?

Back when I was with my old church I got to see this numerous times. Lady either gets pregnant that probably shouldn’t be or would contract a very serious illness. They’d start praying, asking for prayer but refusing medical monitoring or intervention by the medical world at all. They say the same things Michelle Duggar does about this is God’s will and God would either deliver her safely or He would heal her.

One of the saddest cases of this was a lady named Christina who contracted breast cancer and refused all medical treatments, saying only God alone would heal her. She wasn’t going to have any surgery, no chemo, no radiation, she would simply rely on God.

Everyone at church supported her decision. Except for me. I’d had a bout with breast cancer many years ago, had the joyous fun (it wasn’t fun, I’m just joking) of surgery, chemo, radiation till I beat the cancer. Oh heck, I had chemo four summers ago for my auto immune problems. Big deal, so your hair falls out, you get the excuse to wear lots of fun hats. It is what it is, a temporary season. If it turned out that solving my ongoing immune problems meant eating a bowl of cockroaches or something even more disgusting I’d say ‘Gimme a spoon and a bottle of Tabasco sauce right now!’

Not getting health care while you have children in the home to finish raising is just irresponsible.

But the men of the church always had medical intervention, and it never seemed to strike anyone there that was some sort of warped double standard. I never understood why that was so I’m guessing the lack of serious health care was because in the world of Fundy-Gelicals women were without intrinsic value and considered interchangeable.

Christina died after an agonizing torturous 18 months. What did did Mr. Christina do? He did what I’ve witnessed a number of Patriarchal men have done. He collected that big insurance check, bought a sports car and within six months married a much younger, better looking, newer model. And the cycle continued. Even our Pastor did it, boom, wife dies of cancer, 9 months later Pastor has another wife and life goes on as before.

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Daughter of the Patriarchy: Admissions

December 15, 2011

by Sierra

“When I was your age, my parents wouldn’t send me to college,” my mother was telling me. “I had to work my way through on my own. I don’t want you to have to stop. I will do everything I can to help you keep going to school. Your education is the most important thing to me.”

We stood in the kitchen, a printed letter lying on the counter between us. It was not good news.

I glanced up at my mother with a strained smile. I knew that if wishes could be cashed at the bank, I’d be writing my admissions essay to an ivy-coated castle. Instead, I was trying to find a way to pay the bill from my last semester of community college in time to register for fall classes. It was already August.

My work at Wal-Mart paid eight-fifty an hour: better than all the other work options for teenagers in the area. My schedule was already as close to full-time as it could be without requiring the company to offer me benefits. My hands were tied: I could take another part-time job, but when would I go to school? It was all I could do to keep our car paid for and insured while my mother handled the rent and utilities. College tuition had slipped between more pressing matters like food and transportation, and dragging it back to current status again would not be easy.

Still, I was grateful to have a mother who dared to disagree with the life track laid out before me. A Catholic turned evangelical, my mother was a radical believer in forging new paths. She had, after all, followed her heart out of her family’s religion when I was still a toddler. Going to college was my chance to discover what God had in store for me as an individual, she thought. I knew already that beliefs like these made my mother an outsider, a liberal and a radical in my church of stay-at-home daughters and unremitting parental supervision. What I did not yet know was how short and how tight the bonds were that held my friends.

“Why don’t you fill out your FAFSA?” my mother suggested. “Maybe you can get grants or student loans. They might offer you more if you apply to a four-year school. Let’s drive around and look for a college where you can transfer your credits.

I loved Rowling College on sight. The sprawling green lawn, ancient shady oaks and dark grey stone of its oldest building washed over me in a wave of color and charm. “It looks like a little Harvard,” I told my mother breathlessly. A more culturally adept young woman might have said it looked like Hogwarts.

The admissions counselor radiated warmth and hope. She beamed at my community college transcripts. No, it didn’t matter that I didn’t have SATs, she said. My grades proved that I could handle introductory classes. I felt a bubble of excitement rising in my throat, and firmly swallowed it. I would assume that this all was beyond my grasp, I decided. If it proved true, I would be pleasantly surprised. If it didn’t, I would not allow myself to feel the disappointment. I can go back to college later, I reasoned. There is a manager position opening at my store.

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Snipped! – Part 1: Mama

December 6, 2011

by Incongruous Circumspection

I will begin this series with a look into the childhood of my Mama.  In fact, let’s go even further back to how her parents met.  This look into my mother’s growing up years will give the reader some sense of why she did what she did.

Grandpa fought in the Atlantic Theater in World War II.  Grandma was the secretary to the Secretary of State. She had a small side-job for the government – meeting the young men who came back from war, as a dancer.  Yes, the government would provide women to dance with the young lads on leave. It was at one of these functions that Grandpa met Grandma and they fell in love.  They were married shortly thereafter.  Both were devout Catholics, and made that clear, by having a total of nine children.  My mother popped out as the second oldest.

Grandpa was many things.  He bought the family a horse ranch in Big Lake, Minnesota.  That ranch was the source of many, maybe all, of my mother’s fond childhood memories.  When the family lost the ranch,  my mother was crushed.  She loved her horses and the “getting away” that the ranch provided. Grandpa was also a devout Republican and yet, he had many friends in high places in both major political parties.  He was good friends with George McGovern,  had an excellent friendship with Hubert H. Humphrey, knew Nixon, and loved Ronald Reagan.  He was friends with the family of Amy Klobuchar and watched her grow up.

His connections led him to start a newspaper that would rival the other large Minneapolis rags, which, at the time, were both on strike.  The paper went well for a while and then the other two papers merged, which caused the strike to end.  Grandpa’s partners pulled their money, and he was left broke and weeping.  Until his death, Grandpa ran a few daily circulars or weekly newsletters to support the family.  When money ran short, he would spin off to Las Vegas to increase his monetary footprint or even send one of his children to “make some money”. Once, he handed my mother $40 and sent her to the City of Sin.  She went with no clue how to gamble and ended up winning $400.  She did the math and realized that that was a pretty decent haul and went right back home, much to the consternation of Grandpa.  He was of the mindset that, if things were going well, they would keep going well.  Thus, if you won $400 from $40, you would easily haul away $4000 from $400.

Grandpa also had a dark side.  He had numerous extra-marital affairs.  It was rumored that he fathered a child by one of his secretaries. Half the family fled to California in disgust and anger.  My mother was one of them.  His sexual abuse was also both documented and rumored.  You will see, later in my story, how this translated to how my mother raised her own children.  Through all of this tumultuous life, Grandpa stuck with Grandma and they loved each other very much.  He died in her arms.

At 19 years old, my mother was in charge of her father’s newsroom and directed the editing of the paper.  She was, and is, very intelligent and knows what she is doing at every juncture in her life.  She lived precariously, but never drank an ounce of liquor, did any drugs, nor did she ever smoke.  Once she went out with a police officer who took her on a ride-along while sipping from a flask of whiskey on a necklace.  He flipped the squad car and Mama broke her neck, collarbone, and arm.  She bears the scars of surgery to this day and can predict the weather with the subsequent aches and pains. After she left the paper, she  became a cab driver.  The cab company went on strike and Mama became a scab.  She caught the eye of my dad, the company dispatcher. They were married not long after he proposed to her, over the dispatch radio.

And that was her life before us.

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Snipped! ~ The Intro.

December 5, 2011

My name is Incongruous Circumspection.

You can call me Circ, for short, as long as it doesn’t make you think of circumcision.  Then again, if you are at all familiar with Christianity, circumcision and the analogies of circumcision are all too familiar and you will feel more than comfortable calling me Circ.  In fact, being Circ, you may view me as a sort of King David, being that he circ-ed hundreds of dudes for some chicks big time dad to let him marry his daughter.  After all, I love women as much and more than David ever did.  I just don’t peep from rooftops.

Ok, enough of that rabbit trail.  Let me further introduce myself.

I will be writing my story from beginning to end (though it hardly has an end, at this point) and will occasionally write commentary on current events that I find troubling, guffaw-ready, or even celebratory – advancing the power of women and men together.

I am a husband of one woman.  She is so smokin’ hot I have trouble concentrating at work, play, and even while sleeping.  We have been married for over ten years and have been growing closer as the days go by.  We have six children.  They are aged 9, 8, 6, 4, 2, and 1.

While I love children and hate them at the same time, we are done for good.  I got snipped as a Christmas present to my wife last December and our sex life has never been better.

I grew up in a matriarchal home (single mom) with patriarchal ideals.  We churched in a commune sort of church and socialized with only those people that agreed with us and swallowed Billy G. (Gothard) whole.

We learned about sex being evil, women being inferior, men being the spiritual leader of the home and always expected to be perfect, the Bible being inerrant and infallible, the Republican Party being configured to usher in the second coming of Christ, the idea that all liberals were the spawn of Satan, children were supposed to be beaten into submission, shirts were to be buttoned to the neck, shorts were evil, women were to wear dresses, skirts, and jumpers at all times (even while swimming), the idea that bunches of children that you couldn’t support made you more holy in the sight of God, the evils of public school, and much more.

I rejected most of this on the surface of my life when I “ran away” at the age of 19.  But, I still lived with the guilt and the foundational principles of red-blooded ultraconservative Christianity.  I took it into my marriage and made the first six years a living hell at times, with many a bright spot in between.

Eighteen months ago, we finally cast off the last piece of the baloney sausage and moved into a life of freedom and happiness.  I became an agnostic and my wife became a questioning Christian.

My story will hit on many of the juicy details of my growing up years.  The abuse of my mother.  The physical, emotional, and borderline sexual abuse.  The spanking of my sisters until they were 25 years of age.  Being accused of having two affairs because I left a church.  Learning to swear intelligently and then overusing the talent.  It will all be mixed in with my sorry attempt at humor.

I hope to keep your attention and learn you a thing or two about patriarchal and quiverful life from the perspective of a man who would rather be submissive to a woman (or many women) so I don’t have to go through the tiring pretense of trying to be perfect.

I look forward to it.

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The Destiny of a Virtuous Daughter ~ Part 4: Have Mercy on Me, a Sinner

November 8, 2011

by Starfury

At 15, I was finally given the female role models I had longed for. My family converted to Eastern Orthodoxy, and I embraced it wholeheartedly. No longer did I have to pray only to God, but I had the Theotokos to turn to.. someone who could understand me as a girl. After our conversion, my prayer to God (whether the Father or the Son) diminished greatly, and I prayed often to both Mary and St. Katherine the Great-Martyr.

I was searching for unconditional love and acceptance, and it was hard to see it in the God who would stand judging you when you died. It was easier to find it in a woman who watched her son be crucified.

Regardless, I was determined to do things right. I still had to be the perfect daughter, only this time I had confession to help hold me accountable. I wasn’t content to just be Orthodox… I had to be the best I could. I made the effort to fast more… not just from meat, but from dairy as well, and during the Great Fasts, I abstained from fish on Wednesdays and Fridays.

I felt guilty going to confession, and I found myself spending more time alone in the woods in tears. I felt that I was doing the same things wrong, that I was struggling with the same sins over and over. I wondered if the priest kept count, if he thought I would never learn… I was trying to do my best, I really was. I followed daily prayer, I read my Bible, I said the Jesus prayer over and over on my prayer rope, I learned about the saints and their feast days, I attended every Liturgy and daily service I could.

There was still something that I was doing wrong, there had to be. I still struggled with my temper, I still wanted things that didn’t quite line up with wife and mother, and my mother and I still had a rocky relationship.

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